Tuesday, 16 November 2010

lovers are always the victims of torches and chance (even - or especially those on a Paris bridge)

In the back of your carWhere the light from the starsCaught our eyes in a moment of blueIt was then that I knewAll my feelings were trueAnd what lovers like us have to do

I looked at the timeAnd the time ran so fastLike an arrow that flies to the heartAnd I thought that a lifetimeWould not be enough timeTo delight in this pleasure so dark

Lovers are mortalTheir hearts are the size of night cloudsLovers are mortalTheir actions are jealous and proudLovers are losersAnd who knows the bruises they bearFor lovers are mortalAs frail as the breath that they share

In the shadows of doorwaysWhere lovers are alwaysThe victims of torches and chanceI would hold you so near'til the scent of your hairSent me reeling my mind in a trance

Oh I still can recallThe soft music of rain fallingSilver and cool in the nightAnd it washed through our loveLike a river in floodLike an ocean of tears shining bright

And I like to believeThat the memories we weaveAre the bittersweet echoes of dreamsIn the evening their call straysFrom yesterdays hallwaysLike the faraway chimes on the breeze

Lovers are mortalTheir hearts are the size of night cloudsLovers are mortalTheir actions are jealous and proudLovers are losersAnd who knows the bruises they bearFor lovers are mortalAs frail as the breath that they share

It is wonderful to see that the floating bridge can install itself in cities all over the world, Paris, Rome, Tokyo, London, Rio, and I don't know where; bidding young lovers to come walk its length and to linger a while in its shadowy spells...

She pressed against his shoulder, and he, thinking that somehow the gilt hands on his pocket watch would suddenly stop, slowed his breath. Later, they glanced at each other, but it would be more accurate to say that they glanced through each other, as one sees a vitreous image in a lily pond. Is it you that I see? Or is it me? You can no more possess a reflection than you can possess a semidark shadow or, for that matter, an astonished lover. It's odd how the most obvious things seem to elude us. She looked at him now, with a feather-light smile, and said, "Where will you be in twenty years?" He didn't think of her as being ephemeral, but later, having the kind of epiphany one has on mornings when the snow blankets the ground with an opalescent sheen, realized it smugly. She knew that this was a good sign, for only a long and crooked and tortuous path led to that place, the one, for lack of a better term, we call home.

Sometimes being in love is like being in a fog, a mystical dream, shrouded in a private bubble, but yes, the flame can burn too brightly and chance can be kind or cruel. It is always a beautiful trip to ride the emotions your images inspire. Always provocative. The first one blew me away...

Dear Roxana,souls....souls....and more souls. Every image it's full of souls, made by intens souls, guiding the final result of your work.I could say amazing, superb, etc...but usually I don't have the write words when I see your pictures. I see so much pain....transformed in something sublime, extra, over....I see you as a wild and extraordinary artist.

This posting prompted me to do a mental recall of the lovers I've had. I knew from a past counting coup the exact number...and on this recount, I couldn't quite match the amount with the faces and names I could conjure up from my past. Eventually, the missing few came back to me, including one whom I had cried over and pined for and anguished about for many months. All but forgotten, the ashes of those flames scattered on the winds of time. I am happy that I am no longer "carrying a torch" for anyone and hope to never do so again. There has to be some slight benefit to aging after all.

Here we have another beautiful masterpeice, I love the way your photo captures the fleeting ephemeral state of love which probably is part of the reason that it is so exalting and the darkness lies in the depths of the soul that it must reach

but where would we be without it, love from a distance or a forbiden love that may never be realized or a consummated love or memories of love its part of the music of life, it is the wine of life...

Ive been in love with both men and women and it has been a beautiful song of life for me and pleasure must be painful........